


May I be used

by breathedout



Category: Affinity - Sarah Waters
Genre: (not very nice gender play), Consent Issues, Domination, Drug Addiction, Epistolary, F/F, Fake astral projection, Gender Play, Lies and the liars that tell them, Power Dynamics, Sadism, Spiritualism, Stream of Consciousness, Victorian Christian notions of the path to quote unquote redemption, and what's any story without some, occasional submission too I suppose, on all sides, twisted about 50 degrees to the left
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-06 14:19:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5420303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathedout/pseuds/breathedout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The spirits, I know, suffer for me just as Margaret does, and just as I suffer for them: for whose would they be, if they did not?</p>
            </blockquote>





	May I be used

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miss M (missm)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, Missm, and thanks for giving me an excuse to write in this fandom, which I've been meaning to do for a long time. I took you at your word about not shying away from the darkness of the canon, so... I hope you meant that, ahahaha. There's an element of Ruth and Selina's canonical situation vis-à-vis Margaret that's inherently nonconsensual, and even their canonical interactions with one another sometimes get into grey areas there, and I felt it was more respectful to acknowledge that within the story rather than hand-waving it. Anyway, I hope it's not too far down the dub-con path for you.
> 
> Everyone else: READ THE TAGS. In particular: consent issues warning, drug content warning, warning for lies and manipulation (all canon-typical). Also FYI that I would not necessarily categorize the power struggle and sexually-expressed sadism in this story "BDSM," even badly-practiced BDSM, and it shouldn't be seen as commentary on what we'd now call kinkiness. As always with my stuff, this is not a how-to manual; don't try this at home; and in fact if you find yourself in a situation remotely resembling this one I would advise running for the hills. 
> 
> Both snippets from Margaret's diary are straight from Sarah Waters's text.

**21 December 1874**  
**The journal of Margaret Prior**

They come every day now, the tokens from Selina. They come as flowers, or as scents; sometimes they come only as a subtle alteration to the details of my room—I return to it and find an ornament taken up and set down crooked, the door to my closet ajar and my dresses with marks of fingers on the velvet and the silk, a cushion with a dent in it, as if a head had lain there. They never come when I am here and watching. I wish they would. They would not frighten me. I should be frightened, now, if they ceased! For while they come, I know they come to make the space between us thick. They make a quivering cord of dark matter, it stretches from Millbank to Cheyne Walk, it is the cord through which she will send me herself. 

The cord grows thickest at night, when I lie sleeping with the laudanum on me. Why didn't I guess that? I take the medicine gladly, now.

**15 January 1875**

_—was a comfort anyway the trousers and that old waistcoat always a laugh black-leather gloves and a topper to catch the eye of the fine young girls was what Peter liked wasn't it. Get them overbred and deep-pocketed barely out of school, Oh, she'd said a time or two, Oh she's so nervous, she hesitates Ruth she pales and stutters Ruth she swoons is he sure she's ready for it is he sure but: I should think Peter'd know, Miss, cinching her stays with strong arms tight enough she gasped, like—gasped—if a spirit in a breast not yet risen up is ready or no, catching her eye pale in the glass and holding it there with her dark one forcing it steady 'til she'd nodded once; nodded again and Ruth had looked down and tied her off tight as could be and stepped back and laughed._

_Glove to the door polished shoes step sprightly, quiet on the wood. This one was ready enough. Past it, more like. She'd not hear him with the laudanum on her but he did it anyway; that's how he'd stepped hadn't it been in the visiting room in Sydenham with the blinds pulled tight, tweaking hats, pinching cheeks, laughing through the curtain, young mesdemoiselles flushing up in the dark for him but not this one not her, money shrivelled in her like fruit parched on the branch that even in August had never ripened up. Cheeks hollow. Sallow and sorry she'd hardly flush up for a man like Peter. She'd hardly flush up for any—_

 

**21 December 1874**  
**Ruth Vigers to Selina Dawes**

Dear Miss Dawes,

I was glad to get your letter of the 17th, and to hear that you have been taken out of the Darks. When I picture you to myself I try to think of us as we were back in Sydenham, or how we'll be when you're free again. But it is hard to imagine those scenes, when I know things are really so different. 

You write that you want my news and you ask after our friend—whether I have seen him or no. As to the second point, there's little enough to interest him in my present situation as I'm sure you'll see. And as to the first, there's not much news to give but what goes on with the Priors at Cheyne Walk. The life of a servant is always bound up with that of her master—but then I know you will understand _that_. 

Miss Prior recovers well from her illness of earlier this month. She has not been late to supper. She spends the evenings reading to her mother about made-up murders done thirty years ago. Lately she doesn't complain, as she used to do. She doesn't pace her room or fight against taking the medicines that the doctor prescribes. Last night I heard Mrs Prior saying she believes Miss Prior has come right at last, and has reconciled herself to occupying her right place in the family. I hope she is right—or at least that Miss Prior's quietness might last some time. But there is a queer brightness in her eye. A wild, rising look that comes on her when she thinks no one's watching. She eats as little as she can without anybody noticing, and even her brother's wife has caught her out pretending to listen in conversation while really she dreamed. I worry that she may be less steady as she seems. Though she appears quite set in her purpose, and shows no signs of wavering, I own to anxiety about the constancy of such a sensitive and highly-strung disposition. 

I know, however, that her visits to you are a great solace to her, as hers are to you. A few calming words from you, when you see her, might do wonders. 

Yours faithfully,  
Ruth Vigers

 

**15 January 1875**

_—fellow. Trying to pay her a compliment, trying to. Trying to do her a good turn. There she lies like she likes, to be drugged to the teeth: and under Peter's waistcoat curdling thinking I ought to be in the pantry havin' a brandy I ought to be down the pub but oh that one and her stubbornness and her high-minded—laughing, almost, here on the thick carpet feet from a snoring bluestocking between fine cotton sheets and even she can't believe it of this spinster this harpy this old left boot gone months not sparing Ruth a backward glance not sparing her a thought, and to think that Peter—to think that he'd jump when that one said—_

_She wants a bit of her own back. That's what it is. She's sitting alone now after lights-out thinking about—about him. Wasn't that it. About_ Peter _. About Peter in this room stepping light in his trousers and his polished shoes shadowed in the glow from the street-lamps and dusted all over with powder of phosphor and turpentine or does she think about that part? But she's got him now. Got him in mind now, sitting in the dark thinking of what she's made him do, warm little bitch when she gets her teeth in something but if she were here he could turn her head, if she were—ought to turn around. Turn around go out on the town every man the master of his own castle wasn't that it, ought to muffle up and go down into the street, all the city an oyster, all the city a kingdom._

_In the bed in the lamplight the spinster snuffles, and her reaching hand. She fumbles even in sleep for the glass she's set up to meet her. Thinks of it all the time now and she thinks of her, thinks if she swallows enough of the stuff she'll get her golden girl, get all of her get her to keep, get her like Peter's had her shaking in her shimmy gasping May I be because he'd told her, burning up and gasping with her little hands tied down and her eyes shut—_

 

**24 December 1874**  
**Selina Dawes to Ruth Vigers**

Dearest Ruth,

Thank you for the kind thoughts in your letter of the 21st. I can take comfort, at least, in thinking of you safe and prospering in your new situation, so close by my own place. I hope, now that things are quieter and I am returned to the common routine of Millbank, that you can dwell more easily on the future and the spiritual, and less on the present, at least where I am concerned. As to our friend… surely if one sees with the eyes of the spirit, then all situations are alike. Or at least, given such devoted servants it would become him to assure us of his continued regard. 

I am touched by your concern for the health of our mutual friend, your new mistress. It is very good in you. I think of both of you so often, and take comfort that you are together and well-served by it. Though, as to calming words—I wonder what you think I, in my cell, who sees Miss Prior for a scant half-hour once a week or less, might do to ease her nervousness. Surely you, who are with her every morning and every evening, and through many afternoons as well, are better-positioned to anchor her spirit and bolster her steadfastness of purpose. 

In any case, I am sure you have nothing to fear. Miss Prior is not inconstant or wavering; it is merely that she is restless with an inner light. I am surprised that it didn't strike you at once: for you must have seen the same look so often in the faces and manners of the young ladies who used to come for private sessions at Mrs Brink's; who needed the help of our friend in order to channel their sensitivities, and to refine them in their spiritual callings. If our friend were only to counsel Miss Prior; to aid her as he aided them in distilling the impurities from their gifts so that they could become more fitting conduits for the spirits—I feel sure, in this case, that Miss Prior's uneasiness would abate. 

Yours,  
Selina Dawes

 

**15 January 1875**

_—tight shut tight in the closeness of the closet saying Oh Lord are you real? saying Oh Lord—with the silk cords chafing her wrists and Peter in his tails in the close air in the close air in the smothering—_

_Perspiring. Hard breathing look how she's got you. Creeping about some old maid's bedchamber on a madwoman's order what're you about girl what have you come to. Can't open the door now breathe in breathe out can't open a window neither. A cold breeze'd clear this one's head it'd wake her. Better she come to to the stink of the drug and then the cologne to cover the turpentine but—Christ it's still. Dead still and Ruth—and Peter always craved a bit of a commotion. He got restless she knew he did she knew but. But get yourself together girl. Breathe in breathe out there are, thinking: there are tickets in the trunks there are. Are passports in the secretary and the spinster's sad little journal good as a map marking the way. Traveling passes free and clear, £1300 tucked up next to them. And won't you like it in Rome all the dark-haired girls with their big black eyes and their rosaries. Silk-backed woolen waistcoats they said were there for the taking, breathe steady there's a good chap there's a good. They could go out to the fine shops My mistress's young man has a birth-day in February, sayin' she loves him so sir; and her blushing like she does all up her neck beggin' to be teased Do you think he'd like this one Ruth holding it up I couldn't say miss the gentleman is so particular about his clothes as she'd press, near pleading: Don't you think he would? Don't you think? Don't you think the colour would suit?_

_Swallowing down: don't get womanish now. She stirs there in the bed. Turns over, come close, stretches up and that black velvet at her throat. She'd been panting to clamp it 'round her neck soon as it'd slipped from her book hadn't she. Brass buckle at the back, Peter'd string a leash. Peter'd slip his rough fingers under the cloth and feel the girl tremble. Peter's big fingers in their gloves reaching out, touching—and the twitch of skin under leather so he pulls back in time for her little wondering drug-soft scream—_

 

**29 December 1874**  
**Ruth Vigers to Selina Dawes**

Dear Miss Dawes,

You'll pardon me I'm sure for waiting so long to reply to your last letter. There has been so much to do at Cheyne Walk, what with Christmas, and then getting ready for the New Year and for the family travelling to Marishes—and Mrs Prior, of course, wanting everything just so before they go. What a fuss a large household puts up. Why, by comparison, the Easter holidays at Sydenham seem like nothing at all. 

But I assure you your letter amused me very much! To think of you comparing our fine Miss Prior to the young girls you and me used to see with our friend! When you must know Miss Prior is a wholly different sort of person, so much older and such a more proper lady. I laughed fit to burst. Then I admit I was a bit put out, for Miss Prior's sake—but I know that you are only teasing me. And I'm sure I can't be angry with you for that, when you have been so long away from people and from any distractions or amusements, and may have forgotten the distinctions from one kind of lady to another. I am sure all that a girl like Miss Prior needs is for people around her to be steady and a bit kind, and take an interest in her and draw her out. She always seems more sure of herself when she comes home from seeing you, Miss. 

Yours faithfully,  
Ruth Vigers

 

**15 January 1875**

_—and then knuckles to her lips Oh she says and her hand is trembling. That's a man she's thinking. But then: The glow of him, and then:_

_S—? and whispered: P-Peter?_

_He smiles slow puts his finger to the side of his nose and she reaches her hand out for his shirt-front but it stops short. Hovers near the glass and he can see her thinking can see her heart beating with: It's working, triumphant thinking I knew it, thinking If a draught brings him to me then another might bring her._

_Selina— she tries again, She sent—_

_Leather to dry lips. Mouth like a fish. She's hardly the kind to turn Peter's head but still: there's the flat of his big hand, settling over her mouth. Pressing. Ruth sends air throat-deep so Peter can rumble: A_ man _in your bedchamber, Margaret Prior, chuckling, And the servants asleep, and all your family away from home. She flinches and then—then stops herself, perceptibly stops herself. Softens into it. Presses back up into his hand and that's—_

_Ah, that's it, he says. That's it, pressing, and she presses back. Clear as day he repels her. Clear as day she forces herself calm thinking: For Selina._

_Thinking For Selina thinking For Selina thinking Dear pure pearl of a girl how does my darling bear it thinking His rough hands his callous winking thinking His mouth at her seashell ear his shining wet lips and his whiskers. Shuddering: The brute! How can it be he, she's thinking, who possesses my kitten my dove my angel how awful he controls her when she'd written herself in her little book about the doll she'd make of her. All the fine clothes she'd bought to dress and fashion her little Selina. To turn her this way and that her small waist her golden hair put her up on a pillar and look at her pet her breathe heavy on her, she'd written it all and then scribbled down: Vigers's eyes, sometimes, were almost handsome._

_Peter croons to her. Says: My medium's medium, and the spinster stops herself flinching. And leaning down leaning over her, tongue brushing her ear as he wets his lips and low in his deepest voice: She sends me here, fingers moving to brush her cheek, and her little inswept breath, To make you stronger. To make you strong enough to bring her, and to keep her. Should you like that, Margaret Prior? and Yes she whispers as her whole body under the sheets answers, Yes, like a wave. He says, You would like that? Yes? To be of use to my medium? and the spinster shudders, Yes, and she—_

 

**1 January 1875**  
**Selina Dawes to Ruth Vigers**

Dear Ruth,

Your letter came into my hands just as Margaret—Miss Prior, I should have written—had left my cell; and the difference between your words and my impressions of her, was most striking. I assure you, I was not teasing you. I was in utmost seriousness when I wrote about her condition, and her need for spiritual guidance. Indeed, her sensitivity grows so pronounced that I am convinced she will suffer for it; that, if her feelings and abilities are not helped to a suitable outlet they will twist within her, will become so consuming that she will end distracted and unpredictable. And if that were to happen, even a person like you or I could not tell how she would act and react. 

She tells me, has just told me, how she feels my spirit all about her, that the air grows thick with it. When she says it then _I_ feel her agitation, the alarm and disorder in her breast. How well I sympathise! For her situation was mine, too, before our friend came to me. How much I wish, for my own sake as well as hers (and yours), that I could bestow on her, through a look or a touch, some of my own practice at serving the spirits. But without the assistance of our friend, and a more sympathetic time and place, it is impossible. And if she continues on without help or guidance—you see my very hand trembles as I write!—then she is likely to become ill and nervous; unreliable; and all her intelligence, and her fine sympathetic nature, her good intentions and all her wealth and position, will be of little use. 

I hope I have expressed myself forcefully enough to convey the necessity of action. You tell me our friend finds little to interest him in your current place; yet here am I, only a short distance away, serving so faithfully the purpose he has in mind for me, even though it is hard, even though I am blind. It is within his own power to help me endure, and be surer of my own steadfastness. A very little attention and training could confirm Miss Prior in her devotion to the spirits, and provide a channel and a release for her sensitivities. 

Yours,  
Selina Dawes

 

**15 January 1875**

_—moans and You will, he says, won't you, and the sounds she makes. You'll make yourself warm for her, and she gasps, Make your spirit hot, running his hands down her front through her night dress, become so melting hot that she comes to you, and Yes she says and he says, So liquid hot she can bubble up inside you, Yes, Can make use of you, and Please she says Please and he tells her You want that, rubbing his whiskers against her cheek: You want it so much you'll make yourself bear even me._

_Teeth bared. She flinches away then stills herself and he laughs. Cologne strong in the close space between them he can feel her making herself: breathe. Breathe. Hands clenched in the bedsheets: her fine sympathetic nature._

_You'll withstand me, he says, won't you? For her? Margaret nods, once. Nods and then—nods and he nods back at her Yes. Big fingers to her hollow cheek to her hair: For her, he says again and her eyes shut breath wavers For her; and teasing her: For…? and she cries out Oh Selina—but Peter presses his palm back down against her mouth. Look at her eyes spark up look at that._

_Selina, he whispers, and under his hand Margaret moans._

_And inside Ruth's head, sing-song parroting back like children on the street Selina Selina Selina Selina_

_Peter pulling his hand back pulls the bedclothes back, pleasant as can be:_ She doesn't mind me, he says, and Margaret presses her lips together. Breathes. He tells her, She doesn't mind my whiskers, or my rough hands. Not like you do. 

_Margaret's chest rising and falling loud in the night she says nothing he watches her eyes watches thoughts as good as written on her eyelids But Selina, thinking: If one sees with the eyes of the spirit, thinking: Selina thinking: Selina—_

_He moves quick moves light when he wants catches her wrists and that gets her, she cries out. Bedstead creaking when he bounds up sinks down knees digging in either side of her hips holding her down. Eyes of the_ spirit _, thinks Ruth, and it drips down the back of her head like a cracked egg as Peter's lip curls._

__She _, saying, bending his head down with her wrists held tight in one of his big hands, doesn't mind my cologne, does she. Margaret gives a quick little shake of her head, No, he says. She doesn't mind my deep voice, and eyes wide she bites her lip. Or my strong arms, and he presses her down feels her moment of panic feels her force herself steady. It doesn't sicken her, he says, pressing his knee up between her legs with her breath coming fast and her mouth closed tight, Not like it does you, and she twists under him until laughing he bends down whispers—_

Selina

 _—and she bloody melts._

_Moans._

_Selina, she echoes, eyes closed, and presses her hips up through her night dress and Peter's mouth—Ruth can feel—twisting—_

_Aye, Peter says. Rough-moving handful-grabbing twisting in her hair and Margaret gasping and gasping as: But then Selina, he says, always liked a bit of suffering. A bit of—_

 

**7 January 1875**  
**Ruth Vigers to Selina Dawes**

Dear Miss Dawes,

I own I am amazed to read such things as the ones you wrote in your last letter—amazed at them universally, but more especially just now, when I promise you everything here at Cheyne Walk is so quiet and peaceful. Mrs Prior and the family, and the rest of the servants, leave for Marishes in a few days' time, and Miss Prior has never seemed more content. Do you really think her condition so serious that, with such a short time before her own departure, she is likely to collapse in the next fortnight, and let go all her plans? If you do believe it, then surely she is beyond our friend's help, just as much as she is beyond yours and mine. What good do you imagine he might do her, in the few weeks remaining before she plans to leave? I'd think it'd be cruel to her, even: starting her down a path only to have to snatch her away from it when she leaves for Marishes. And afterward—well. Afterward I'm afraid our friend will be engaged elsewhere. 

In sum, Miss, I am sorry I wrote you at all if these are the ideas you're likely to get into your head. I can only think that, in staying so long on your own and with no company but the matrons and the fine sensibilities of as you call her in your letter 'Margaret', you yourself are becoming confused. I am of course your willing servant and Miss Prior's. Our friend was always harder to order about. 

Yours,  
Ruth Vigers

 

**15 January 1875**

_—pain._

_He twists his fist and she writhes. Did you know that, Margaret Prior? Peter says. Did you know she thinks it makes her, oh—what do you think her? Beautiful? He laughs and leans down whispers in her ear: Do you think her beautiful, Margaret? and she moans and he sinks his teeth, sucks a bruise around the black velvet at her throat._

_Yes, he says. Licks. She is isn't she. Warm breath on wet fabric coming cool and the spinster shivers. Do you think she'd be as beautiful, Margaret Prior, he says, if I didn't—and twists tight his hand at her hair shoves his knee up bites hard at her earlobe and she says Yes! You think she would? he says and she: Yes. You think she'd be as beautiful without the rope-welts on her wrists? Yes. Without the wax to burn all the dirt and distraction off her? Yes. Without my bruises on her you think she'd be as beautiful? And Yes she says and he gets her collar in his teeth and growls. Of course she would, Ruth thinks, the little bitch, and pulls at the collar until it stretches so far she could fit a fist under so she doesn't say—_

_Peter sits up. Sits back with one hand still in her hair and the other he pulls the glove off with his teeth and then runs down her front and: My medium says, (keep his voice there keep it deep), that it makes her rare. Eyes bright entranced Margaret shifts under him, and him rubbing at the wet of her through her night dress with the heel of his hand. Selina, Peter says—she says she was only ordinary before, before I came, before I—shoving Margaret down into the sheets so she twists, cries out, and bile seeping up Ruth's throat—before I did these things that made her sh-shining, she—_

_She is, Margaret whispers—_

_—says it makes her fine, rare, suffering through it like—that it makes her e-exalted what she makes me—like a bloody—Chr—_

_—angel, Margaret gasps eyes closed—_

_—and curdling up bad milk behind her hard-caked face Peter snarls and digs his fingers in: scalp and groin (and Ruth: swallowing swallowing swallowing swallowing—)_

_My medium tells me you are ripe for it, Peter growls down at her, and she nods. Should you like, blunt fingers shoving at her between her rolling hips, To be beautiful, Margaret Prior? as he thinks about slapping her face, Should you like to be rare? Should you like to be—_

 

**13 January 1875**  
**Selina Dawes to Ruth Vigers**

Dear Ruth,

I find that I have had time, since my confinement in Millbank, to think on the nature of service. That of a medium to the spirits; of a wife to her husband. Of a servant to his master; of a private to his commander; of a labourer to his employer. Devotion, obligation. Sacrifice. The power seems at once to be all with the party who commands; and yet, the command is nothing without the decision to withhold or tender obedience. In the same way, service that is wholly pleasurable, service that one might choose for one's own sake, has little to show. Don't you find?

I sat tonight at my supper, holding my blunt-edged butter knife; and thinking of the velvet collar that I once wore, and that Margaret wears now. I thought of the lock, and the way it had used to tug at me; and how heavy it must be for her; and with my knife I traced the shape of a letter into the flesh of my own arm until it became red, and swollen, and finally until it broke the skin and a fine line of red sprang up. 

The spirits, I know, suffer for me just as Margaret does, and just as I suffer for them: for whose would they be, if they did not?

Faithfully,  
Selina

 

**15 January 1875**

_—made hot, (wet to the knuckles), Liquid hot, burned pure to bring her and keep her would you Margaret Prior, would you suffer to be made—arching off the sheets To be made—mouth open gasping like a fish in air To be made rare to be made—_

_—rare—_

_Peter always chuckles after like he's pleased with them so do it now, girl. Make a deep laugh stagger up from his chest there it comes. There. She turns her head to the side closes her eyes as her breath slows. Slows. Into sleep._

_Seems you will, Peter whispers to her as she nods back into her laudanum dream. And she's sleeping now so he can't slap her tug at her shake her An Angel she said, so Ruth swallows with her teeth grinding together and he says: More than you know._

_You won't see me now. Won't hear me won't notice me hold my wet hand out leave you my glove. Won't see me breathe careful swallow down ease off step heavy out the room shut the creaking door. Still early; could do a brandy in the pantry. Do well before I write the prison, do well before I. Cold water rough servant's flannel wash the scent off my hands wash the turpentine off his shirt-front, you won't see. And will you write in your book tomorrow—will you write how thick the air grows now, write how her spirit guide visited you his very self—but no. You shouldn't like to write "he." You like to think her rare and precious and your pearl your angel your precious girl only but she comes with me, my lady, she comes along with me because I tell her so and I've done such things as this for her because she's not given me a choice and I'll make her suffer for them, won't I, and she'll burn bright with the pain of it and believe herself made pure._

 

**16 January 1875**  
**The journal of Margaret Prior**

Sometimes I think my passion must infect Vigers. 

Sometimes my dreams come so fiercely, I am sure she must catch the shape and colour of them in her own slumbers.


End file.
